THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


2*? 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2006 


http://www.archive.org/details/tossedcoinsOOhutciala 


OSSED   COINS 


BY 

AMORY  HARE 


*EW    YORK:    JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 
.ONDON:   JOHN  LANE,  THE   BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXXI 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


PS 


In  the  dark  depths  of  a  dog's  eyes, 
In  the  far  call  of  a  speeding  train, 
In  the  dim  shapes  of  seaward-faring  ships, 
In  mastheads  fingering  the  crowded  skies, 
In  lighted  windows  seen  across  the  plain, 
And  in  the  smiles  that  tremble  to  your  lips, 
There  is  a  mystery  God  made  to  live 
Unsolved,  but  beautiful,  and  fugitive. 


61299? 

UB8ABY 


nPHE  author  returns  thanks  for 
■*■  permission  to  use  in  this  collec- 
tion of  her  poems,  those  which  have 
appeared  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
Harper's  Magazine,  Contemporary 
Verse,  The  Princeton  Alumni  Weekly 
and  House  and  Garden. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Tossed  Coins 1 1 

JOY  O'  LIFE 

The  Meadowlark  to  the  Skylark 15 

A  Song  of  Singing 16 

Weather 17 

Joy  o'  Life 18 

October 19 

Wet  or  Fine 20 

My  Meadow 21 

To  a  Brown  Horse 22 

Memory  of  a  Storm 24 

Walking  at  Night 26 

The  Old  Road 28 

Seeing 29 

Chanticleer 30 

Hearing .       .  31 

Before  Dawn 32 

Geraniums  and  Lilies 33 

Cherry  Blooms 34 

In  Youth 35 

IN  SORROW 

Song 39 

To  My  Cousin ...  40 

Gone 42 

"Shine!" 43 

The  Bell .45 

Pain 46 

The  Lover 47 

If  I  Were  Dead 49 

Prayer 51 

My  Dead 52 

At  the  Wood's  Edge 53 

vii 


IN  SORROW  (Continued) 

PAG1 

Ingratitude 54 

At  Midnight 55 

Dawn 56 

The  Unconquered 57 


QUIETUDE 

To  My  Father 61 

A  Crown  of  Bells 62 

Reverie 63 

Mine 64 

Memory 66 

Confession 67 

April 68 

In  a  Rose  Garden 69 

Blown  Roses 70 

Nearness 71 

To  a  Little  Girl 72 

To  a  Little  Boy 74 

The  Live  Night 76 

The  Challenge 78 

The  Nest 79 

The  Holy  Hour 80 

After  Harvest 81 


Vlll 


Tossed  Coins 


HOW  swiftly  the  bright  coins  of  thought 
Come  from  the  busy  mint,  the  brain, 
To  markets  where  our  lives  are  bought — 
The  senses'  ease,  the  spirit's  pain. 
And  one  will  save,  and  one  will  spend, 
And  one,  on  meeting  with  a  friend, 
Some  lesser  coin  will  toss  and  spin 
For  chance  of  what  its  fall  may  win. 

So  I  have  tossed  and  spun,  and  held 
The  bright  coin  in  my  hand,  to  read 
Whether  it  was  a  song  it  spelled 
Or  those  dark  fears  that  sorrows  breed. 
The  elder  gods  all  played  at  chance — 
Thus  came  adventure  and  romance. 
Our  lives  are  shillings,  like  as  not, 
The  gods  have  spun — and  then  forgot. 


ii 


JOY  O'  LIFE 


r  T  was  not  given  me 

*•    To  beat  the  blue 

As  you, 

Who,  from  the  tufted  highland  springing, 

Soar  up  with  all  your  being  singing 

All  manner  of  brave  melody. 

But  on  a  tree 

That  stands  apart  in  some  loved  meadow's  slope, 

I  chant  my  happy  song  of  common  hope, 

Glad  of  the  piping  that  was  given  me ! 

Glad  of  the  grasses  and  the  nodding  clover, 

The  crickets'  voices  and  the  boom  of  bees 

Blending  with  birds'  cries  and  slow  melodies 

Played  by  the  idling  brook,  where  little  hooves 

Of  foals  have  worn  the  soft  banks  into  grooves, 

Or  splashed  through  shallows  as  they  galloped  over. 

Sufficient  these !     All  song's  a  joyous  thing, 

Be  there  an  ear,  or  none,  to  hear  me  sing. 


15 


WHY  do  I  sing?    I  scarcely  like  to  say — 
I  hardly  know — but  certainly  today 
I  thought  of  you,  and  afterwards,  I  think 
My  heart  became  a  thrush  or  bobolink ; 
A  bobolink,  for  choice,  because  he  sings 
And  soars,  the  while,  on  small  ecstatic  wings. 
I  know  that  something  swift  and  delicate 
From  deep  within  me  was  articulate, 
And,  of  a  sudden,  glad  to  beat  the  blue.  .  .  . 
I  sing,  I  think,  because  I  thought  of  You. 


16 


SOME  tell  of  the  friendships  that  grow  out  of  books 
When  the  theme  is  so  strangely  by  each  understood, 
And  speech  is  not  needed  while  silence  and  looks 
Proclaim  the  old  truth  "understanding  is  good". 
But  ho !  for  a  dog  and  the  fog  on  the  heather ! 
The  loveliest  friend  I  have  wanted  is  Weather. 

Some  sing  of  the  comrade  so  quick  to  detect 
Each  change  in  the  mood,  every  shade,  every  tense 
That  colours  the  mind  all  alive  to  reflect 
Every  beauty  and  joy,  every  pain  and  suspense. 
But  ho!  for  a  horse  and  the  creak  of  the  leather! 
The  cleverest  friend  I  have  needed  is  Weather. 

Some  tell  of  companions  whose  pipes  glowed  and  guttered 

Beside  the  old  fires  that  they  lit  in  the  past, 

Who  meet  now  and  then  for  the  jests  that  are  uttered 

When  men  toast  the  years  that  are  flying  so  fast. 

But  ho !  for  the  wind  and  me,  singing  together ! 

The  heartiest  friend  I  have  proven  is  Weather. 

The  jovial  flurry  of  midwinter  snow, 
The  chuckle  of  rain,  or  the  petulant  blast, 
The  lazy  slow  smile  of  the  sun  dropping  low, 
Ah,  what  of  the  day  when  I'll  leave  them  at  last? 
Why  ho !  for  the  sky  and  the  moon  like  a  feather ! 
My  soul  to  my  God  and  the  rest  to  His  weather. 


17 


I*  REY  skies  and  tattered  clouds 

^-*    And  a  long  wet  road  beneath, 

And  the  smell  that  hangs  in  autumn 

Above  the  bronzing  heath; 

With  the  drenched  moors,  the  tossed  trees, 

And  a  little  snatch  of  song, 

And  the  limber,  light  young  body  of  me 

To  carry  my  soul  along. 

Arched  feet  strong  to  lift  me 

Wherever  I'd  be  going! 

A  back  that's  as  a  young  tree 

When  winds  of  spring  are  blowing! 

O,  the  joy  of  listening  ears! 

The  boon  of  seeing  eyes! 

How  can  I  think  God  gave  me  this, 

My  body,  to  despise? 

The  muddy  face  of  the  wet  road, 

The  little  cedar  trees, 

Look  up  to  thank  the  sky  again, 

And  my  wet  face  with  these: 

That  I  have  had  the  long  road, 

My  little  snatch  of  song, 

And  the  limber,  light  young  body  of  me 

To  carry  my  soul  along! 


18 


/^  REY  days  and  cold !     The  corn  tassels  shaking, 

^-*    A  wind  from  the  east  blowing  wet  past  the  lips, 

And  smell  of  soaked  boughs  that  the  leaves  are  forsaking, 

And  mist  on  the  hill  where  the  muddy  road  dips 

Down  to  the  stream,  as  it  eddies  and  slips 

Over  the  stones  with  a  gurgle  and  bubble, 

There  where  the  cattle  have  trampled  the  stubble. 

Hear  the  old  cedars!     They're  singing  and  sighing! 

Sycamores  toss  their  pied  arms,  and  their  laughter 

Shakes  all  the  air,  and  the  beeches,  replying, 

Sound  like  a  chime  that  a  prayer  follows  after. 

The  wind  has  gone  daft,  but  the  tree-tops  are  dafter! 

Ah,  here's  a  day  to  put  heart  into  men ! 

Grey  days  and  cold,  and  October  again! 


19 


AS  I  was  on  the  high-road 
That  leads  to  Miller's  Run, 
I  met  my  lover  Barney 
Riding  in  the  sun. 
He  lifted  me  so  tenderly 
And  sat  me  on  his  mare, 
And  as  we  sauntered  up  the  hill 
He  strove  to  woo  me  there. 

A  bonny  house  had  Barney 

And  many  lands  he  had, 

Of  all  his  wealthy  family 

He  was  the  only  lad. 

He  courted  me  so  grandly 

With  many  a  sigh  and  moan, 

Why  could  I  think  of  nothing 

But — "How  long  his  teeth  have  grown  I" 

As  I  was  on  the  high-road 

That  leads  to  Somerset, 

I  met  my  lover  Sandy 

Walking  through  the  wet. 

He  asked  me  very  shyly 

If  I  would  walk  a  way, 

And  when  I  asked  him  why,  he  said, 

"It's  such  a  lovely  day." 

Then  all  the  beauty  of  the  day 
Went  tingling  through  my  brain; 
The  high-road  seemed  a  magic  thing, 
All  muddy  in  the  rain. 
And  as  we  panted  up  the  hill 
And  through  the  soaking  grass, 
Why  could  I  think  of  nothing 
But — "What  darling  eyes  he  has!" 

20 


I'VE  a  meadow  on  a  mountain,  all  my  own  these  mellow 
days, 
Just  a  sunny  upland  meadow  where  the  dun  hill-cattle  graze, 
With  bells  upon  their  mottled  necks  and  sunlight  in  their 

eyes, 
Making  music  in  my  meadow  where  it  dreams  against  the 
skies. 

There  is  peace  there  in  my  meadow  where  a  man  may  lie 

at  ease; 
There  is  humour  there,  and  healing,  in  the  twisted  little 

trees; 
There  is  splendour  there  and  beauty,  that  a  man's  dim  soul 

may  rest; 
There  is  witchery  and  laughter,  there  is  wonderment  and 

zest! 

Let  me  take  you  to  my  meadow  where  it  dreams  against  the 

skies ; 
You'd  be  lovely  in  my  meadow  with  your  bonny  shining 

eyes, 
With  the  mellow  light  about  you  and  the  joyous  sky  above. 
Ah,  we  must  be  in  my  meadow  when  I  tell  you  of  my  love ! 


21 


TO  A  BROWN  HORSE 


IF  you  were  mine  I'd  come  to  you  at  moon-rise 
When  the  deep  grass  is  growing  cool  and  blue, 
In  the  dim  fields  where  sleeping  mists  will  soon  rise, 
Floating,  before  the  coming  of  the  dew, 
And,  wondering  idly  at  the  look  of  grass 
Under  the  heavens  at  this  mystic  hour, 
I'd  pull  myself  a  blue-eyed  meadow-flower 
To  place  above  my  ear,  before  I  pass 
Under  the  fence,  gigantic  in  the  gloom, 
To  call  soft  words  to  you,  as  lovers  do. 
You'd  hear,  and  lift  your  head,  and  look  me  through 
With  ears  cocked  up,  as  who  should  say,  "To  whom 
Do  I  thus  owe  this  pleasure?"     Then  a  low 
Caressing  eager  whinny,  scarcely  heard, 
Would  come  to  me,  and  that  most  gentle  word 
Would  reach  me  often  as  we  wander  over 
To  where  the  brook  comes  chuckling  through  the  clover. 
The  moon  would  pour  pale  magic  from  her  bowl, 
The  disc-eyed  owl  descend  without  a  sound, 
The  unseen  field-mouse  hurry  to  his  hole, 
The  hid  cicada  drum  against  the  ground; 
And  all  the  jovial  hurry  of  the  chase 
Would  fill  the  mind  again  with  sights  and  sounds 
Of  scarlet  coat,  and  merry  horn,  and  pace, 
And  beat  of  hoofs,  and  rioting  of  hounds! 

Alas !    The  thought  of  you  but  brings  me  pain : 
I've  only  loved  you  from  a  passing  train ! 


23 


I   HEARD  the  message  pass 
The  lean  beach  grass; 
I  saw  the  whirling  sand 
Warning  the  land; 
The  worn  pines  on  the  hill 
Tossed,  and  were  still, 
Fearful  of  what  they  heard 
In  that  swift  word. 

The  east-wind  leapt  and  cried 
That  day  had  died; 
The  gentle  face  of  day 
Grew  stark  and  grey, 
And  all  the  wind-struck  night 
The  sea  grew  white, 
Weaving  of  foam  and  cloud 
The  dead  day's  shroud. 

Out  of  the  darkling  gale 

The  dawn  came  pale; 

The  ground-swell  lashed  the  sand 

Along  the  land, 

And  gulls  blew  down  the  sky 

With  smothered  cry, 

Beaten  and  blown  away 

Like  spume  and  spray. 

Then,  in  a  sudden  lull, 

A  battered  gull 

Called  that  the  storm  was  spent, 

The  promise  sent. 

Forlornly,  in  reply, 

The  sound  went  by 

Of  some  sea-weary  bell 

Riding  the  swell. 

24 


Yet  something  mild  and  fair 

Scented  the  air, 

Blending  a  landward  breeze 

With  salt  of  seas; 

The  old  pines  on  the  shore, 

Ceasing  their  roar, 

Yearned  upwards  towards  the  sky 

With  a  slow  sigh. 

After  the  wind  and  rain 

Came  sun  again 

With  amber  afternoon; 

And  then  the  moon 

Climbed  the  dim  stair  of  night 

To  dawn's  delight. 

A  single  shattered  mast 

Showed  where  a  storm  had  passed. 


25 


MY  face  is  wet  with  the  rain 
But  my  heart  is  warm  to  the  core, 
For  I  follow  at  will  again 
The  road  that  I  loved  of  yore, 
And  the  dim  trees  beat  the  "dark, 
And  the  swelling  ditches  moan; 
With  the  joy  of  the  singing,  soaring  lark 
I  follow  the  road  alone. 


Alone  in  the  living  night 

Away  from  the  babble  of  tongues, 

Alone  with  the  old  delight 

Of  the  night  wind  in  my  lungs, 

And  the  wet  air  on  my  cheeks 

And  the  warm  blood  in  my  veins, 

Alone  with  the  joy  he  knows  who  seeks 

The  thresh  of  the  young  Spring  rains, 

With  the  smell  of  the  pelted  earth, 

The  tearful  drip  of  the  trees, 

Making  him  dream  of  the  sound  of  mirth 

That  comes  with  the  clearing  breeze. 


'Tis  a  rare  and  wondrous  sight 

To  walk  in  the  wet  a  while, 

And  see  the  slow  delight 

Of  the  sun's  first  pallid  smile, 

And  watch  the  meadows  breathe  again 

And  the  far  woods  turn  to  green, 

Drunk  with  the  beauty  of  wind  and  rain 

And  the  sun's  warm  smile  between! 

26 


I  have  made  me  a  vagrant  song, 

For  my  heart  is  warm  to  the  core. 

And  I'm  glad,  Ah !  glad  that  the  night  is  long, 

For  I  follow  the  road  once  more. 

And  the  dim  trees  beat  the  dark, 

And  the  swelling  ditches  moan; 

With  the  joy  of  the  singing,  soaring  lark 

I  travel  the  road,  alone. 


27 


"D  OAD  like  a  vein, 

■"■^  Tell  me,  where  will  you  take  me 

Beyond  the  broad  plain? 

Will  you  mend  me  and  make  me 

The  merry-eyed,  cherry-lipped  gypsy  again, 

Who  followed  your  turning 

Through  the  jovial  patter  of  rain 

Or  the  sun's  ruddy  burning? 

Will  you  give  me  your  cloud-mottled  hills 

Where  the  wheat  nods  and  billows; 

The  brook  that  a  shallow  pool  stills 

At  the  feet  of  the  willows; 

The  meadows  that  quiver  and  dance 

With  the  music  of  bees; 

Or  the  shadows  that  hover  and  glance 

To  the  laughter  of  trees? 

Will  you  give  me  the  longing  for  home 
When  the  dark  comes  to  daunt  me; 
The  urge  to  go  forward  and  roam 
When  the  moon  comes  to  haunt  me? 
The  ricks  in  the  gloom  by  the  barn 
And  the  smell  of  the  cattle, 
The  carters  that  pause  for  a  yarn 
Or  go  by  with  a  rattle; 
The  hail  and  the  halt,  the  goodwill 
That  they  toss  to  the  stranger; 
The  keen  stabbing  joy  of  the  thrill 
At  the  coming  of  danger? 

Road  like  a  warm  living  vein, 

Tell  me,  where  will  you  take  me 

Beyond  the  broad  plain? 

Will  you  mend  me  and  make  me 

The  merry-eyed,  cherry-lipped  gypsy  again? 

28 


YOU  who  have  eyes,  you  do  not  know  the  sky 
As  I,  who,  restless-memoried,  recall 
The  tender  majesty  of  clouds  and  all 
The  slow  remote  tranquillity  on  high. 
For  I  may  feel  the  moon  come  round  the  hill, 
And  smell  the  summer's  cool  platoons  of  rain 
Ride  down  the  valley,  making  fresh  again 
The  bayonets  of  green  that  dust  would  kill — 
The  soft  musk-smelling  dust  of  little  roads 
Out-flung  beneath  the  sun,  and  mottled  all 
With  shadows,  where  the  hay-carts  with  their  loads 
Pass  by,  exhaling  spicery,  and  let  fall 
Small  wisps  that  blend  their  sweetness  with  the  dust. 
No  hour  but  must 

Share  its  deep  self  with  me:  for  I'm  atune 
To  every  wandering  loveliness  of  June, 
Each  thundering  threat  of  Frost,  imperious. 
All's  an  adventure,  all's  mysterious 
And  full  of  wonder.    Twice  ten  thousand  harps 
Sing  in  the  winter  winds  that  cry  to  me; 
Guessed  beauty  seeks  my  zealous  memory; 
The  very  crickets  fiddle  flats  and  sharps! 
Who's  blind?     I'll  swear  it's  not  this  fellow!     Never! 
I,  who  was  blind,  have  found  my  sight  forever. 


29 


TX^HAT  can  wake  the  little  cock 

*  *      Every  midnight,  by  the  clock? 
Is  it  just  coincidence, 
Or  some  freak  of  Providence, 
Tickling  then  the  hidden  ear 
Of  the  lordly  chanticleer? 
Sometimes  in  the  bitter  dark 
When  the  village  mongrels  bark, 
And  the  wind  seems  wickedly 
Torturing  each  shrub  and  tree, 
Nosing  all  along  the  ground 
Like  some  hunger-driven  hound, 
Till  I  wake  and,  eerily, 
Hear  him  baying,  drearily, 
Gallantly  my  little  cock 
Crows  to  say  its  twelve  o'clock. 
In  the  darkness,  bleak  and  dim, 
All  his  neighbours  answer  him. 
And  that  small  audacious  sound 
Seems  to  ease  the  aching  ground, 
Seems  to  make  the  worn  trees  sigh 
"Soon  the  dawn  will  mount  the  sky," 
And  so  strangely  comforts  me 
That  I  bless  him,  sleepily. 


30 


A\^HAT  if  we  made  our  senses  so  astute, 

*  '      Our  minds  so  quick,  our  hearing  so  acute, 
That  we  could  hear 
The  infinitesimal  sound 

That  seeds  must  make  in  falling  to  the  ground 
At  turning  of  the  year? 
What  if  we  heard 
The  breathing  of  a  bird, 
The  tapping  of  the  black  ant's  little  feet, 
The  brown  snail  tracing  out  a  silver  street? 
Perhaps  more  kind,  and  so  more  swiftly  wise, 
We'd  apprehend  tears  welling  in  the  eyes 
We  love  the  most,  and  so  could  speak  the  word 
To  dry,  or  send  them  falling  through  a  smile, 
In  just  a  little  while. 
I  think  all  tears  that  fell  at  happy  times 
Might  make  a  little  pattering  sound  of  chimes. 


3i 


IN  this  last  hour  before  the  dawn 
The  Milky  Way's  a  vast  bazaar 
Where  wealth  of  stars  is  bought  and  sold, 
And  planets,  wandering  from  afar, 
Buy  peacock  plumes  and  cloth  of  gold, 
While  Pleiads  bring  their  pearls  to  pawn. 

Translucent  silks,  as  black  as  night, 

And  scarves  that  might  have  hid  the  Moon 

When  from  the  passionate  sea  she  fled  away; 

Bejewelled  sword  and  musketoon, 

And  frail  stringed  instruments,  that  play 

For  flashing  ankles  swift  delight, 

Are  heaped  with  ivory  and  jade 
And  old  wrought  silver  diadems 
Mid  fans  and  shoes;  and  stomachers, 
Encrusted  with  a  thousand  gems, 
Flung  down  mid  pelts  of  silken  furs — 
Ah,  brief  the  hour  and  swift  the  trade ! 

I  think  I  must  have  been  a  star 
At  that  celestial  bazaar ! 


32 


SAUCY  red  geraniums,  nodding  on  the  window-sill, 
Brown  pots  in  a  row  beneath  the  thick  green  leaves, 
Symbolizing  all  the  things  that  come  with  country  cottages, 
Candle-light  and  little  rooms  beneath  the  drooping  eves. 

Stately  calla  lily  blooms,  gleaming  through  the  window- 
pane, 
Gazing  on  the  avenue  with  half  averted  faces, 
Posing  in  a  silver  vase  against  the  heavy  tapestries, 
Blending  with  the  sombre  rugs,  the  paintings  and  the  laces. 


33 


'  I  AHERE  are  moments,  there  are  hours 
-*-     As  I  bend  above  my  flowers, 
Counting  little  lifted  faces 
In  the  sunny  sheltered  places, 

When  I  seem  to  catch  a  gleam 
Of  the  dim  eternal  dream, 
Dreamed  by  greenly  growing  things 
In  innumerable  Springs. 

There  are  moments  when  I  feel 
All  their  exquisite  appeal, 
There  are  hours  when  I  know 
Why  the  poppies  bleed  and  blow; 

When  the  velvet-bellied  bee 
Is  a  thing  of  mystery, 
And  the  pigment  of  the  rose 
Is  a  secret  no  one  knows. 

In  the  moonlight  by  the  wall, 
Yester-eve,  I  watched  the  fall 
Of  the  cherry  blooms  that  blow 
In  a  softly  scented  snow; 

And  I  wondered  if  the  gift 
Of  that  faintly  fragrant  drift 
Was  the  petals'  joy  in  darting, 
Or  the  old  tree's  grief  at  parting. 


34 


GOD,  if  I  pray  not  yet  to  Thee 
With  pious  eyes  and  sacred  phrase, 
While  thus  my  heart  sings  down  the  days 
That  Thou  hast  set  aside  for  me — 

Forgive  me,  Master  of  us  all; 
The  earth  Thou  gavest  little  men 
Has  caught  me  to  its  heart  again, 
And  all  my  being  is  in-  thrall. 

Beyond  the  dreaming  purple  hills 
The  sunny,  silent  meadows  sleep, 
And  hurried  little  waters  leap 
And  laugh,  with  murmurings  and  trills. 

And  all  day  long,  O  God,  the  sky 
Has  loosed  its  ships,  until  a  fleet 
Of  iridescent  squadrons  meet, 
Manoeuvring  in  majesty. 


The  stars  have  faded  one  by  one, 
And  now  a  little  sleepy  bird 
The  whisper  of  the  dawn  has  heard, 
And  hails  the  coming  of  the  sun. 

Ah,  God!     When  grief  with  visage  cold 
Shall  walk  with  me  and  blind  my  eyes 
To  all  this  glory  of  the  skies — 
Then  will  I  speak  those  phrases  old. 

Like  a  cathedral's  altar-steps, 
Worn  smooth  by  countless  reverent  feet- 
Those  ancient  words  so  smoothly  sweet 
Were  made  by  countless  vanished  lips. 

35 


I  am  too  joyous  now  to  fear, 
Too  humbly  happy  to  repent, 
Too  dumbly  grateful  I  was  sent 
To  live  among  the  others  here. 


36 


IN  SORROW 


MY  Love  was  born  when  stars  were  dancing, 
The  tide  was  high  and  the  moon  was  full, 
The  surf  was  white  and  the  sea-gulls  glancing; 
So  bright  was  she,  and  beautiful. 

My  Love  was  named  when  trees  were  tossing, 
When  brooks  ran,  singing,  towards  the  sea, 
And  brown  trout  leapt  by  the  stony  crossing; 
So  slim  and  swift  and  glad  was  she. 

My  Love  was  wed  when  the  spring  was  young, 
When  the  western  sky  was  a  painted  splendour, 
And  the  crescent  moon  by  a  thread  was  hung; 
So  sweet  was  she,  so  wise  and  tender. 

My  Love  was  buried  when  snow  was  deep, 
And  the  moon  sailed  over  the  ghostly  hill, 
And  I  feared  to  stir,  and  I  dared  not  weep; 
So  mute  was  she,  so  white  and  still. 


39 


TO  MY  COUSIN 


\^0U  who  seemed  winged  even  when  a  lad, 
■*■     With  that  swift  look  of  those  who  know  the  sky, 
It  was  no  blundering  Fate  who  stooped  and  bade 
You  break  your  wings  and  fall  to  earth  and  die. 
I  think  one  day  you  may  have  flown  too  high, 
So  that  Immortals  saw  you  and  were  glad, 
Watching  the  beauty  of  your  spirit's  flame 
Until  they  loved  and  called  you.  .  .  .  And  you  came. 


4i 


INHERE  is  no  beauty  here,  nor  loveliness; 

■*■     No  song,  nor  evening  hour  of  holiness; 
No  look  of  laughter  in  the  bending  skies; 
No  mirthful  gentleness  in  human  eyes. 

Gone  is  the  magic  from  the  little  bird 
Beneath  the  eaves,  whose  nesting-song  we  heard; 
The  new-sprung  grass  beside  the  meadow  brook 
Has  lost  its  freshness  and  its  wondering  look, 

The  star-eyed  beauty  that  it  used  to  hold 
Before  the  Spring  had  lived  to  grow  so  old, 
Before  the  days  were  ended  with  the  dawn — 
Long,  long  ago,  before  my  Love  was  gone. 


42 


^1X7  AN  of  de  boot-black  on  de  ferra-boat, 
^  *      I  wacha  de  beeg  crowd  goin'  back  an'  fort', 
And  a  queekly  count  de  feet  dat  might  be  wort' 
A  leetla  dime  for  mek  dem  shiny  coat. 

Great  many  feet  I  watcha  een  a  day! 

Wan  vera  leetla  shoes  I  have-a  shine', 

Wit'  holes  een  toes  dat  should  have  been  een  fine 

Warm  boots,  de  owner  was  so  vera  gay, 

So  vera  sweet  to  look  at  een  de  eyes ! 
I  lak  to  shine  dos  leetla  toes  for  her. 
Wan  day  I  see  a  man,  dressed  lak  chauffeur, 
And  leetla  lady  looka  at  de  skies 

And  tak  de  han's;  I  look  de  odder  way, 
And  all  de  night  I  teenk  of  leetla  wan, 
She  have  look  up  so  loveeng  een  de  sun, 
And  not  care  what  de  beega  crowd  might  say. 

And  een  de  morn'  when  ferra-boat  eet  start 
I  shine  for  her  de  leetla  shabby  toes, 
And  she  say,  "Tony"  (red-a  lak  a  rose), 
"Shine  beeg  today,  for  I  hava  geev'  my  heart, 

And  when  I  come  tonight,  my  leetla  frien', 
I  show  you  someteeng  on  dees  lefta  han'. 
He  ees  so  fine  a  man,  so  vera  gran' ! 
I  shan'  be  on  dees  ferra-boat  again!" 

But  when  de  night  eet  come,  she  come  alone 
An'  creep  into  de  dark  behin'  de  stair, 
An'  when  I  pass  I  see  her  crying  dere, 
And  when  I  spik  she  give  me  leetla  moan. 

43 


Poor  leetla  wan !     Poor  laugheeng  leetla  rose ! 
I  watch  de  many  feet  dat  pattera  past, 
And  count  de  faces  hurryeeng  so  fast — 
But  never  see  dos  shabby  leetla  toes ! 


44 


T^OUR  and  twenty  separate  times 
*■      Followed  by  a  run  of  chimes, 
The  bell  has  struck  the  hour 
From  the  coral-tinted  tower; 
Measuring  impartially, 
In  its  grave  unhurried  way, 
Each  swift  hour  when,  yesterday, 
Seeing  You  was  ecstasy, 
As  it  measures  hours  that  crawl 
Broken-winged,  now  You  are  dead, 
With  the  candles  at  Your  head 
Making  shadows  on  the  wall. 


Four  and  twenty  separate  times, 
Followed  by  a  run  of  chimes, 
The  bronze  bell  struck  the  hour 
From  the  coral-tinted  tower. 


45 


SURELY,  from  out  this  agony  of  mind 
Some  good  thing  shall  be  born; 
Some  beautiful  slow  thought  become  an  act 
As  children  come  to  manhood,  so  to  find 
Justification  for  the  piteous  and  worn 
Faces  of  women  who  once  gave  them  birth. 
Now  this  strange  pain's  too  wide  to  be  exact, 
Too  cold  and  heavy,  like  a  winter  tide 
Flooding  the  fields  that  once  were  warm  and  green 
And  ringing  with  the  spoken  joy  of  birds 
When  Noon  danced  in  his  tunic,  shadow-pied. 
Never  words, 

Only  the  cool  unhurried  hands  of  Time 
Can  make  me  gentle  surgery.     An  hour 
Will  fall  upon  an  hour,  until  a  day 
Has  passed,  and  cadenced  like  a  rhyme, 
The  days  will  dawn  and  die  and  come  to  flower 
Over  and  over,  till  the  measured  play 
Of  loveliness  laid  upon  sorrow's  smart 
Obliterates  the  aching  of  the  heart, 
And  one  may  use  a  memory  of  grief 
To  bring  another  traveller  relief. 


46 


DEATH  walks  in  houses,  secretly,  by  night. 
From  room  to  room  he  gravely  moves,  appraising, 
Seeing  at  a  glance  who  bends  before  his  might, 
Stirring  uneasily  before  his  gazing 
Even  in  sleep. 
These  he  will  keep, 
From  others  turn  away 
As  an  old  father  bids  his  children  play 
A  little  longer  on  the  spacious  lawn, 
Musing  on  how  the  coming  of  the  dark 
Will  drive  them  to  his  knees 
For  comfort  and  for  sleep  before  the  Dawn. 
I  think  that  these 

Wear  in  their  eyes  some  mystic  secret  mark 
That  holds  his  fancy,  as  a  bright  fish  gives 
Pleasure  to  watching  eyes  the  while  it  lives, 
But  dead  holds  nothing  of  its  quick  delight. 
Unwillingly,  I  think,  Death  reaps  the  swift, 
Brave,  daring  children  who  in  beauty  move, 
Careless  of  life  and  prodigal  of  love, 
And,  like  a  plaything,  tossing  heaven's  gift 
Of  Living  'twixt  themselves  and  Death  himself, 
Setting  such  store  by  brief  and  earthly  pelf, 
And  turning  joys 
To  toys. 


47 


Yet  at  the  door  of  some  he  stops  to  smile, 

And  bathe  his  troubled  eyes  and  smoothe  his  hair 

As  boys  do  who  have  waited  thus  awhile; 

In  eagerness  he  waits  and  listens  there. 

Then,  feeling  for  his  gift,  he  sheds  the  role 

Of  the  observing  beggar,  asking  dole, 

Who,  when  refused,  took  with  swift  angry  power 

All  that  was  fair  and  free  within  the  hour: 

He  lifts  the  latch  and  softly  enters  in, 

Flinging  away  the  sordid  rags  that  cover 

The  pity  in  his  visage,  brow  to  chin; 

And  claims  his  own,  as  a  long  waited  lover. 


48 


IF  I  were  dead  I  would  not  miss 
The  things  that  were  my  deeper  bliss; 
I  should  be  far  too  well  at  rest 
For  burning  thoughts  to  fill  my  breast; 
There,  in  the  silence  of  the  grave, 
Content  with  what  such  stillness  gave, 
No  yearning  should  disturb  my  will; 
Yet,  when  the  Spring  ran  through  the  hill, 
Haply  the  wandering  scent  of  her 
Some  consciousness  in  me  might  stir, 
And  with  the  blind  root's  will  I  might 
Grope  back,  remembering,  towards  the  light. 


Ah,  God!  To  walk  the  world  again 
When  all  the  fields  are  sweet  with  rain ; 
To  come  again,  when  dusk  is  falling, 
And  hear  the  tree-toads'  drowsy  calling; 
To  wander  through  the  tufted  clover 
When  Humble  Bee's  a  busy  lover, 
Or  stumble  on  some  little  grove 
My  loneliness  had  made  me  love. 
To  wear  a  cool  green  summer  frock, 
To  hear  the  busy  kitchen  clock 
Tick,  while  the  house  is  dark  and  still, 
And  vine  leaves  at  the  window-sill 
Whisper  a  small  word  to  the  grass 
When  desultory  breezes  pass. 
Above  a  tea-cup's  brim  to  gaze 
At  slow  smoke  rising  through  the  blaze, 
Or  meet,  perhaps,  the  friendly  look 
Of  eyes  just  lifted  from  a  book. 


49 


To  see  the  tidy  little  towns 
Tucked  in,  content,  beneath  the  downs, 
To  ride  a  long  day,  straight  and  hard, 
And  come  at  dusk  to  stable-yard, 
Hearing  the  great  beasts  in  the  stalls 
Stamp,  or  rub  softly  'gainst  the  walls, 
Or  blow  the  dust  from  out  the  grain — 
Ah !  God !  To  know  these  things  again. 


50 


I   HAVE  begged  heaven  as  blindly  as  a  child, 
As  children  weep  and  cling  about  the  knees 
Of  those  they  trust,  holding  them  fearfully; 
I  have  besought  the  swarming  Pleiades, 
I  have  plead  humbly  before  Venus  mild, 
And  promised  proud  Polaris,  tearfully, 
All  promises  stars  might  exact  from  men. 
The  Constellations  pass  without  a  sign, 
Too  beautiful  and  far  to  answer  me. 
Ah,  I  will  make  my  prayers  to  God  again ! 
"God,   of  Thy  bounty,   limitless,   divine, 
Lean  from  the  skies  and  see  my  agony." 

I  heard  the  garden  owl  below  me  cry, 
And  then  a  star  fell  slowly  down  the  sky. 


51 


T^ROM  gazing  on  my  dead  I  have  come  here 

•*-      Into  the  meadow.    The  cool  green  of  even 

Is  starred  with  flowers  that  may  have  dropped  from  heaven 

In  those  old  days  when  thought  of  me  was  dear, 

When  the  brief  sound  that  is  my  name  held  grace, 

Lived  and  sent  colour  surging  to  your  face. 

My  dead  lie  very  still,  nor  hope  to  rise 

And  tread  some  path,   renewing  youth  again, 

For  my  dead's  lives  were  lived  so  much  in  vain, 

No  resurrection,  merciful  and  wise, 

May  bid  a  second  Spring  pipe  them  awake. 

For  these  the  names  of  those  who  are  my  dead: 

"Trust,"  past  belief;  "Youth,"  tossing  a  glad  head; 

"Love,"  hasting  to  give  all,  for  giving's  sake. 


52 


STARK  and  fantastic  in  their  mutilation 
The  tree-trunks  stand  against  the  evening  sky, 
Shell-split  and  shrapnel-shattered. 
No  voice  is  theirs;  silence  and  desolation 
In  death  walk  here;  the  great  guns  have  gone  by, 
The  embers  of  the  farrier's  fires  are  scattered, 
A  myriad  iron  heels  have  stamped  them  out. 
Only  a  little  dripping  sound  there  is, 
As  though  the  prostrate  earth  was  bleeding,  maimed, 
Pocked,  as  though  pestilence  had  been  about. 
Dusk  never  fell  so  pitiful  as  this 
On  outraged  trees,  too  dead  to  be  ashamed. 
This  is  the  little  wood  where  such  elation 
Rippled  along  the  sky-line  in  the  Spring, 
Each  tree  a  dancer  swaying 
To  the  hummed  tune  of  April's  revelation; 
This  is  the  place  where  such  a  quivering 
Of  slim  green  fingers  fluttered  in  the  Maying. 
There  are  the  fields  that  bore  the  purple  clover 
Tuned,  like  a  cello,  to  the  hum  of  bees, 
The  patient  fields  that  fed  the  tasselled  corn, 
Or  was  it  wheat  that,  as  the  wind  ran  over, 
Streamed,  like  a  banner  rippling  in  the  breeze, 
When  mild-eyed  cows  passed,  lowing,  in  the  morn? 
Where  serried  grain  and  tuneful  clover  stood, 
A  sturdy  forest  of  tired  impassioned  men 
Went  down  to  death,  at  the  toss  of  a  bloody  cap. 
Now  they  and  the  fields  and  the  desolated  wood, 
Ploughed  back  into  all-enduring  earth  again, 
Rest  .  .  .  till  the  next  great  rising  of  the  sap. 


53 


THE  night  held  only  wretchedness  and  coldness, 
Dampness  and  dreariness  and  dismal  drip 
Of  rain  that  darkness  seeme,d  to  lend  a  boldness. 
A  leaf  blew  up  and  clung  against  my  lip, 
Making  me  shudder  as  I  plucked  it  off. 
The  narrow  road  stretched  forward,  like  a  trough 
Of  mud  that  stamping  hoofs  have  lately  mired 
And  broken  in  the  night. 

My  hands  were  wet  and  cold,  and  I  was  tired, 
And  thought  of  how  my  little  bed  was  white 
And  clean,  with  harsh  sheets  cool  and  dry, 
And  how  my  window  framed  a  patch  of  sky. 
I  longed  to  lie  there,  and  I  had  my  wish. 
But,  after  many  weeks,  the  quiet  room 
Seemed  blank;  its  ceiling  an  inverted  dish 
Set  there  to  vex  me  in  the  scentless  gloom. 
And  then  I  thought  of  how  the  living  dark, 
Outside,  had  whispered  in  the  shimmering  wet, 
Talking  of  strange  things  that  are  grim  and  stark, 
Expressing  moods  the  shifting  winds  beget. 
I  hungered  for  the  wet  road's  pungent  reek, 
The  weirdness  of  the  trees  in  their  carouse, 
The  freshness  beating  past  against  my  cheek, 
The  swift  exhilaration  storms  arouse. 
And  all  night  long  I  dreamed  I  felt  the  rain 
Beating  against  my  face  and  hands  again! 


54 


AH,  I  must  rest,  for  all  my  being  droops 
•*■  *-  As  though  in  some  dark  wine  it  was  immersed. 
Darkness,  be  kind  and,  as  a  mother  stoops, 
Stoop  thou  to  me  and  cool  my  spirit's  thirst. 
Let  me  lie  quietly,  while  wandering  airs 
Search  the  broad  brooding  night  for  tired  eyes, 
Eyes  without  tears,  such  weariness  is  theirs; 
Let  me  be  hidden  till  the  moon  shall  rise; 

For  I  must  watch  her  white  serene  ascent 
Tracing  a  course  on  heaven's  canopy, 
Till,  drowsing  in  the  west,  her  beauty  spent, 
Some  memory  of  her  peace  sends  peace  to  me. 
Time,  bathe  my  tired  feet;  Earth,  let  me  stay 
A  while  against  thy  knees  to  watch  the  skies, 
So,  at  the  dawn  I  go  to  meet  the  day 
With  the  old  love  and  laughter  in  my  eyes. 


55 


KNEW  that  it  was  Noon,  because  the  shade 
■*      Contracted  beneath  trees  that  never  stirred, 
But  indolently  mused  without  a  word. 
I  knew  the  Evening,  for  her  coming  made 
A  myriad  perfumes,  wandering  voyageurs 
That  fared  from  field  and  brier-patch  and  glade, 
Telling  the  world  what  loveliness  is  hers. 
I  knew  the  Night,  because  the  pointed  firs 
Were  blue  against  the  stars;  and  all  the  flowers 
Within  my  garden  slept  and  slept  for  hours — 
Except  Nicotiana  who  demurs, 
Mistrusts  the  darkness  and  keeps  broad  awake, 
Lifting  a  white  face,  timorous  and  wan. 
But,  most  of  all,  I  knew  when  it  was  Dawn, 
Dawn  in  my  heart — the  dawn  that  made  it  break. 


56 


T   NEVER  hear  the  thrush's  mellow  flute 

•*■      In  the  hushed  gloom  of  woods,  where  threads  of  sun 

From  tree-trunk  to  tall  tree-trunk,  one  by  one, 

Move  in  slow  beauty,  eloquently  mute; 

Nor  watch  dark  skies,  swept  by  the  trembling  tops 

Of  poplars  bowing  to  the  evening  breeze, 

Nor  tread  the  tufted  grass  the  heifer  crops, 

Nor  feel  the  fog  blow  past  me  from  the  seas, 

Without  that  leap  of  blood,  that  catch  of  breath, 

Coming  to  strike  me  dumb  at  thought  of  Death. 

Death,  the  strange  dream  beyond  all  thought  withdrawn, 

Incredibly  beyond  compassion's  sting; 

Deaf  to  all  grief,  immune  to  pitying; 

Ultimate  conqueror  of  beauty's  dawn, 

That  saw  the  myriad  seeds  of  eager  life 

Willing  themselves  to  growth,  and  rapturous 

Content  in  being!     Brief,  but  beauteous, 

The  conflict,  glorious  the  strife 

That  takes  such  joy  of  living  for  a  span, 

Knowing  the  verdict  before  Time  began. 

Splendid  to  have  been  one  of  those  who  fought 

To  be,  defying  Death  in  every  beat 

Of  a  full-pulsing  heart;  to  drink  the  sweet 

Dark  wine  of  ecstasy,  the  milk  of  thought, 

Until  such  pageantry  of  the  Unseen 

Comes  to  reality  within  the  mind 

That  the  blind  heart  can  consolation  find 

In  heaven  and  hell  and  all  that  lies  between, 

And  comes  to  think  on  Death  as  the  indenture 

That  binds  the  deathless  will  to  new  adventure. 


57 


QUIETUDE 


^"PHE  night  that  I  was  dying, 
•*■     The  little  winds  of  heaven 
Came  whimpering  and  crying 
And  whining  at  my  door; 
A  pale  sun  rose  at  seven, 
A  bitter  dawn  defying — 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  lying 
Upon  a  misty  shore, 
Where  all  was  dark  behind  me, 
And  shadows  slipped  before  me, 
And  tides  nosed  up  to  find  me, 
And  grey  gulls  hovered  round: 
I  only  thought  them  kindly 
To  voice  my  sorrow  for  me, 
And   oh!    but   I    was   grateful   for  my   body's   length   of 

ground. 
No  wish  save  to  be  sleeping, 
A  little  while  to  rest  me, 
My  lovely  silence  keeping 
While  beauty  wandered  by: 
Then  came  a  sound  of  weeping, 
And  someone  stooped  to  bless  me, 

Crying  out  to  God  in  heaven  that  he  could  not  let  me  die. 
Then  as  I  lay  in  wonder, 
Too  spent  for  any  protest, 
Cool  hands  were  quick  to  sunder 
The  fetters  round  my  brain: 
The  hands  I  seemed  to  know  best 
My  tired  head  came  under, 
And  lifted  me,  and  helped  me 
To  live  and  laugh  again. 


61 


I  ^O  think  of  you  is  to  become  serene, 
■"■     And  instantly  so  gay  that  something  swells 
Like  music  in  the  heart.     You  must  have  been 
Somewhere  a  minstrel,  bringing  smiles  to  kings; 
You  seem  to  wear  a  crown  of  little  bells 
That  hold  such  happy  laughter  in  their  ringing 
They  set  all  other  hearts  to  cheery  singing. 

How  can  I  tell  how  greatly  in  your  debt 

I  know  myself  to  be?     I  always  knew 

Beauty  could  not  be  bargained  for,  and  yet 

Beauty  comes  quietly  to  me  from  you. 

How  bought?     For  what  exchanged?     I  never  know; 

I  only  thank  you  that  you  bless  me  so. 


62 


IT  is  so  still  here  in  the  dusky  wood. 
Only  the  moths  have  motion  when  they  spin 
And  flutter  through  the  dark. 
There,  in  the  deeper  dusk,  the  cedars  brood. 
No  warmth  of  fields,  no  voice  of  meadow-lark 
Floats  here — no  breeze  may  wander  in 
So  deep  to  bear  me  company. 
I,  who  am  so  companioned  in  a  field, 
Am  lonely  here  and  rather  sleepily  afraid. 
Just  now  some  little  beast  has  squealed 
And  made  me  creep,  so  that  I  wonder  why 
I  come  here  to  wood  at  dusk  of  day 
After  the  glow  has  faded  from  the  sky. 

Once,  at  this  hour,  I  saw  you  pass  this  way. 


63 


/  I  AHIS  day  is  mine;  and  I  have  wandered  far, 
■■■     Bent  on  beholding  what  it  is  I  own. 
Each  slow  unfolding  hour  has  priceless  grown, 
And  I  am  covetous  of  every  star. 

The  smell  of  hay  and  daisies  is  entwined 
Upon  the  heavy  summer-scented  air, 
And  'mid  the  mellow  silence,  lingering  there, 
Replete  young  Noonday,  drowsing,  lies  enshrined. 

Here  will  I  rest  where  faintly  comes  the  sound 
Of  fir  trees,  murmurous  as  running  seas, 
Where,  in  a  breath,  the  fragrance  of  the  trees 
Is  born  and  dies  amid  a  peace  profound. 

And  now,  where  slumbrous  Noonday  lay  at  ease, 
Pale  Evening  trails  her  gown  of  filmy  grey, 
Lighting  the  dim  brief  moments  of  her  stay 
With  one  clear  candle,  low  among  the  trees. 

As  spreads  the  peacock  wide  its  gaudy  train, 
Night  spreads  her  stars  and  all  her  subtle  snares. 
She  knows  her  power  and,  knowing  it,  she  dares 
Bewitch,  when  all  but  she  would  think  'twere  vain : 

Bedecked  with  gems  her  beauty  to  enhance, 
She  weaves  a  slow  enchantment  o'er  the  earth, 
As  with  a  look,  half  sorrow  and  half  mirth, 
She  bids  the  starry  hosts  of  heaven  to  dance. 


64 


It  seems  that  this  cool  sentient  world  of  night 
Shall  never  change  to  brilliant  Day  again — 
That  time  has  reached  the  last  link  of  the  chain, 
And  frightened  Earth  must  ever  wait  the  Light. 

Yet,  as  I  watch,  the  caravan  of  stars 
Creeps  out,  slow  moving,  on  its  westward  way, 
And,  in  the  East,  the  legions  of  the  day 
March  up  the  sky  with  flashing  scimitars. 

I  know  not  whether  I  shall  lift  my  eyes 
Unto  the  heavens, 'or  bend  them  to  the  grass; 
I  cannot  pray,  I  cannot  sing,  alas! 
And  yet  before  these  wonders  of  the  skies 

Some  spirit  in  me  leaps  to  bend  the  knee 
In  utter  gratitude,  and  love  and  praise, 
For  all  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the  days 
That  God  has  given  to  earth — and  given  to  me. 


65 


A  LL  green  and  gold  the  hours  went  by  today; 
■*  *■  They  seemed  like  little  leaves  that,  one  by  one, 
Bloomed  on  the  tree  of  Time,  and  in  the  sun 
Curled  slowly  from  the  stem  and  fell  away. 

Such  strange  slow  grace  was  caught  in  their  descending, 

I  strove  to  learn  it  in  a  lovely  rhyme 

That  I  might  murmur  over  in  the  time 

When  in  the  earth  I,  too,  should  make  an  ending. 

I  learned  the  silver-bladed  summer  rain, 
The  gloom  of  pines,  the  shimmering  of  heat, 
The  shadows  and  the  dimpling  in  the  wheat, 
Remembering  each  to  make  it  mine  again; 

But  such  oblivion  held  me  when  I  slept 
That,  when  I  woke,  I  had  forgot  the  half, 
Remembering  but  these:  your  merry  laugh, 
And  tears  I  kissed  one  evening  when  you  wept. 


66 


PART  of  a  dream  I  told, 
But  all  I  did  not  tell, 


I  might  not  say  it  well 

Lest  it  seem  bold 

In  the  bare  light  of  common  afternoon. 

Yet  once,  before  I  slept,  I  watched  the  moon 

Dimming  the  stars  with  her  bright  visage.     Only, 

Just  as  I  turned  to  sleep,  I  thought  her  lonely, 

And  thinking  this,  I  straightway  thought  of  you. 

Then,  as  I  slept,  I  dreamed  that  One  you  knew 

(And  love  to  bless  in  memory  yet  more  greatly) 

Leaned  from  the  heavens,  and  graciously,  sedately, 

Gave  me  a  thing  I  was  to  give  to  you. 

It  was  from  Her,  you  were  to  understand.   .   .   . 

Obedient,  in  my  dream,  I  kissed  your  hand. 


67 


A  LL  night,  the  chimney  muttering  and  moaning, 
•*-  *•  All  night,  a  mad  wind  blowing  from  the  north, 
Flaying  the  trees  and  setting  branches  groaning, 
Blighting  the  buds  that  April  signalled  forth, 
Poor  little  green  things,  eager  for  the  Maying, 
Called  by  the  urge  of  life  to  their  betraying. 

If  in  my  heart,  as  in  the  hidden  earth, 
Small  roots,  awaking,  blossom  in  the  mind, 
Seeking  the  light  for  need  of  sun  and  mirth, 
Pray  that  the  Power  who  called  them  may  be  kind, 
Pray  that  their  season  be  a  quiet  Spring — 
A  time  so  brief  should  be  a  gentle  thing. 


68 


SOMETIMES  wonder  if  the  roses  grow 
A      Faint-hearted  in  the  blinding  summer  sun, 
Waiting  the  slow,   unerring  hand  of  time, 
The  grief  of  petals  falling  one  by  one. 

I  wonder  if  they  envy  dandelions 

Who  spring  to  deepest  being  in  a  day, 

And  who,  as  little  stars,  come  down  from  heaven, 

So  riotously  bloom  and  haste  away. 

I  thought  a  frail  rose  murmured  low  today, — 
"Ah!  when  the  first  brief  fragrancy  is  gone, 
To  be  dispersed  upon  the  flying  breeze, 
Whirled  with  a  song  into  oblivion!" 


69 


\\T  HAT  does  it  matter  that  the  time  must  come 
*  »       When  all  my  petals  shall  be  blown  away, 
Leaving  a  brittle  stalk  where  wild  bees  hum 
And  woo  the  living  flowers  all  the  day? 
I,  too,  have  trembled  to  the  kiss  they  brought, 
Was  wooed  and  knew  the  sunlight  and  the  dew; 
I,  too,  have  quivered  to  the  living  thought, 
Have  bent  and  swayed  the  teeming  summer  through; 
These  have  been  mine  unto  the  uttermost, 
And  peradventure  shall  be  mine  again 
When  some  new  shell  becomes  my  spirit's  host; 
Life,  beautiful  as  this,  shall  fill  me  then, 
And  strange  new  thoughts  may  grace  another  Spring, 
Making  existence  seem  a  deeper  thing. 


70 


/  I  ^O  one  I  love 

•*■     I  have  been  all  things  beautiful. 
I  am  the  stars,  the  light,  the  breath, 
The  music  of  the  world  set  forth  for  him; 
And  I  am  witchery,  and  even  woe, 
Woe  of  a  quality  akin  to  joy! 
The  thought  of  me  is  subtly  intertwined 
With  twilight  and  the  wheeling  swallows'  cry, 
With  doorways  dimly  lit;  and  darkening  fields; 
The  long  road's  ending,  and  the  lantern's  gleam; 
With  huddled   roofs   adream  beneath   the   moon. 
For  I  am  that  by  which  he  is  reborn. 
The  dearness  of  the  heart  by  candle-light; 
The  mystery  wherein  two  spirits  blend; 
I  have  the  strange  remoteness  of  the  heavens 
And  yet  the  patient  nearness  of  the  grass. 


7i 


TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL 


11JERE  in  this  darkened  room,  as  daylight  goes, 
■*■  *   I  bend  above  the  sheltered  little  bed, 
And  watch  the  outline  of  the  small  dark  head, 
Touched  with  the  beauty  of  a  child's  repose. 
Dim  little  soul !  what  wonder  yet  to  be ! 
Frail  body,  what  a  miracle  your  part! 
Pray  God  the  one  who  comes  to  claim  your  heart 
Be  worthy  of  your  pain  and  ecstasy. 
Strange  that  these  tiny  hands  shall  tend  one  day 
Another,  who  shall  know  the  earth  through  you; 
Strange  that  these  lips,  that  sorrow  never  knew, 
Shall,  one  day,  teach  another  soul  to  pray! 


73 


TO  A  LITTLE  BOY 


V^OU  will  not  know 
*     With  what  delight  she  learned  of  you, 
Nor  with  what  wonder 
She  bent  above  you  when  you  came, 
And  touched  your  crumpled  hands 
With  love  and  fear,  dimly  aware 
Of  all  that,  strangely  soon,  would  come  to  pass. 
You  will  not  guess 

How  often,  in  the  winter  night,  she  rose 
And,  through  the  chill  deep  dark, 
Crept,  groping,  to  your  bed. 

Nor  how,  with  little  ministrations  born  of  love, 
Through  all  the  changing  days  of  all  the  years 
That  you  were  hers, 

She  served  you  like  a  king,  with  what  delight, 
What  wondering  despair! 
You  will  not  know  these  things, 
Nor  how  it  was  when  first  she  saw 
With  smiles   (a  little  wistfully,  perhaps) 
The  warm  bloom  leave  her  cheeks, 
And  woke  one  day 

To  see  the  small  grim  shadows  that  had  crept 
Beneath  her  eyes, 
Making  them  look  so  mother-wise 
But  old. 

And  when  her  hope  and  care,  her  faith  and  love, 
Her  strength  and  high  resolve  have  wrought  for  you 
The  clean  straight-shouldered  manhood  that  she  dreamed 
When  in  the  sentient  darkness  first  you  stirred; 
Then  beauty,  life,  mischance  and  passion  swift, 
All  interwoven  in  a  potent  web, 
May  overthrow  her  heart's  slow  work  of  years 
And  bring  it  all  to  naught  within  a  day, 
Because  you  cannot  know. 


75 


AM  very  near  to  the  world  tonight. 
-*•      I  could  take  the  darkness  in  my  hands, 
As  one  would  take  the  waters  of  a  spring, 
And  hold  it  against  my  face. 
I  am  only  a  firefly,  the  creature  of  a  season, 
But  tonight  God  has  given  me  faith  in  my  frail  wings 
And  I  am  flashing  and  soaring 
Before  the  vision  of  another  being; 
Floating  in  dark  space 
Against  the  enduring  stars. 

The  early  white  lilac  bush 

Trembled  as  I  stood  a  moment,  listening. 

And  I  heard  the  wind  speak 

And  pass  on,  and  the  little  soft  leaves 

Making  gentle  response.     And  I  wondered. 

And  then  I  forgot  to  guess, 

For  there  came  a  sigh,  as  of  content. 

From  one  of  those  white  blossoms, 

And  fragrance  drifted  by  me  through  the  darkness, 

Fragrance  like  music  floating  down  the  wind. 

And  then  the  moon  came  and  turned  the  grass  to  a  grey- 

ness 
Stretching  down  the  hill,  soft  as  meadow-mist, 
So  that  as  I  moved  I  felt  no  contact 
With  its  smooth  surface; 
I  seemed  to  pass  over  as  the  wind  had  gone, 
Singing  as  the  wind  sang, 
There  in  the  wide  hushed  fields. 


76 


O  Night,  in  which  I  have  heard  the  voices 

Of  little  leaping  brooks  not  far  from  me ! 

O  Darkness,  in  which  I  have  watched  the  faces 

Of  tiny  warm  white  flowers,  tremulous! 

Live  in  my  heart  again 

When  youth's  torch  lies  in  the  roadway, 

Stamped  out  by  the  shuffling  feet 

Of  passing  years. 


77 


LOVE,  I  will  lift  your  gauntlet  from  the  dust 
And  gird  myself  with  courage,  lest  despair 
Cheat  me  of  all  things  beautiful  and  deep. 
Better  to  live,  awake,  than  dream,  asleep; 
And  if  Ill-Fortune  waits  my  bed  to  share, 
Better  to  meet  her,  since  the  meeting  must 
Be  soon  or  late.    Chance  lies  with  those  who  dare. 
For  then,  if  days  remain  alive  for  me — 
All  splashed  with  colour — or  my  spirit's  lamp 
Burns  down  so  low  that  things  I  knew  and  loved 
Are  only  shadows,  sodden  things  and  damp, 
Where  pageantry  of  thought  and  feeling  moved 
Or  danced  to  measures  of  strange  harmony, 
I  shall  be  proud  and  glad  I  did  not  pass 
And  leave  the  circle  where  Love's  gauntlet  lay. 
But  I  shall  wonder  who,  or  what,  it  was 
That  threw  it  there  and  bade  me  pass  that  way, 
And  why  of  all  the  worthy  souls  more  fit 
Than  I,  'twas  I  who  dared  and  lifted  it. 


78 


\X7HEN  the  leaves  danced  and  all  the  trees  were  sway- 

ing, 
Drowsy  with  happiness, 
For  that  the  sun  their  lover  was,  all  through  the  merry 

Maying, 
I  did  not  guess 

That  love  had  builded  wisely  in  the  beeches, 
Brought  the  old  miracle  of  life  to  birth 
There  where  the  apex  of  the  tree's  crown  reaches 
Skies  that  were  tender  with  the  summer's  mirth. 

It  was  not  till  frost  visited  the  trees 

One  bitter  night 

Of  winds  that  shook  with  fearful  ecstasies: 

The  leaves  took  flight 

And  showed  the  trim  nest  cleaving  to  the  branch, 

Braving  the  tempest  that  ran  past  with  jeers; 

So  small  a  thing,  it  seemed,  to  be  so  staunch ! 

Sight  of  it  there  made  laughter  quick  with  tears. 

So,  in  my  world,  when  winter  buried  it 
And  bitter  darkness  fell, 

There  came  a  dawn,  dim,  dreamy,  and  snow-lit, 
Showing  the  place  where  Friendship  builded  well, 
Where  happy  thoughts  were  quick  like  little  birds 
Busy  with  mating  and  the  joy  of  bringing 
Their   like   to   birth:   when   silences   were   words, 
And  every  heart-beat  was  a  sort  of  singing. 


79 


D  Y  my  window,  on  my  knees, 

*-*  I  watched  the  planets  turning. 

I  could  feel  the  upward  yearning 

Of  the  little  cedar  trees. 

In  the  silence  of  the  dim 

Twilight  before  dawn, 

When  the  night  was  almost  gone, 

Like  drowsy  cherubim, 

Clouds  floated  up  and  sailed 

The  blushing  sky,  and  smiled, 

All  rosy  like  a  child, 

Then  drew  away  and  paled. 

So  passed  the  holy  hour 

When  dawn,  by  darkness  wooed, 

At  heaven's  portal  stood, 

And  morning  came  to  flower. 


80 


P\AWN  broke  today,  a  sodden  beaten  thing, 
*S    Old  and  forlorn  and  wet  with  tears  of  grief, 
As  though  some  secret  violence  had  befallen, 
Leaving  Day  dumb,   heart-broken,   quivering. 
The  hush  of  death  held  every  flower  and  leaf, 
Only  the  brooks  ran  turbulent  and  swollen. 
And,  strangely,  in  long  silences  that  hung 
Upon  the  air,  void  as  a  tongueless  bell, 
A  leaf  would  fall,  sedately  and  alone, 
Stripped  from  the  vibrant  bough  where  it  had  clung 
By  some  stray  wind  from  whence  no  one  could  tell, 
Drifting  unhurriedly  to  the  Unknown, 
Much  as  old  dear  beliefs  will  fall  at  last 
Yellowed  by  time,  tear-wet,  yet  still  believing. 
Hour  after  hour  leaves  floated  down,  forlorn, 
And  all  the  trees  seemed  dreaming  of  the  past, 
So  that  one  could  not  tell  if  they  were  grieving 
For  beauty  missed  or  beauty  they  had  borne. 
And  presently,  like  drops  from  some  heart's  blood, 
The  slow  red  leaves  came  dripping  through  the  air, 
The  smell  of  death,  decay  and  soaking  mud 
Went  floating  past  and  settled  everywhere : 
The  very  pulses  slowed,  for  nothing  moved; 
All  was  so  old,  exhausted  and  unloved. 
Then  from  the  stubble,  swiftly,  without  sound, 
A  late  lark  soared  and  dived  and  disappeared: 
And  all  was  changed — the  seamed  and  wrinkled  ground 
Became  an  old  face  memory  has  endeared; 
A  clownish  wind  leapt  up,  and  in  a  trice 
The  sober  trees  with  gusty  laughter  shook; 
The  fallen  leaves  ran  past  like  little  mice; 
A  patch  of  ragged  blue  shone  in  the  brook; 
And  in  the  blind  and  darkened  soul  of  me, 
Brightly  as  flags,  my  thoughts  flew  gallantly. 


THE  END 


82 


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